Maternal relations
by Alexandros Black
Summary: I think it’s obvious from the fifth book that Sirius felt really, really awkward living in his family’s house and filling his mother’s shoes. Which resulted to his death. What if things were different? What if he had made peace with his mother? AU


**MATERNAL RELATIONS**

Sirius hadn't set foot in number twelve, Grimmauld Place for almost twenty years. He didn't even know if the wards would allow him in, since he had been disowned from the family at age sixteen, when he left home. But Dumbledore had been sure that, since he was the last person alive from the main Black line, he was entitled to the headship of the family, regardless him not being a member of it any more.

And here he was now, standing out in the muggle street in front of his family's house, looking at the doorway. He really, _really_ didn't want to cross it. He had way too many bad memories of this house—his mother Walburga, the notorious Lady Black abusing him, mentally and physically; his father Orion, caring more for the appearance the Blacks gave to people instead of the reality; his brother Regulus, the heir both his parents always wanted, looking smug and proud in his robes, black with green and silver lines at the ends and the family crest sewed in the chest, the perfect Black, the perfect Slytherin. Everything he, Sirius, could not and would not be.

No, Sirius didn't want to cross the doorway. But he had to. Because the house was, indeed, the safest place to host the new Order of the Phoenix and to accommodate Harry now that Voldemort was back and would, naturally, want to get his godson out of the way as soon as possible, what with the prophecy and all. Dumbledore was right about that.

He would like to add to this mental argument that Grimmauld Place was better than Azkaban too, but he really couldn't say that. Not honestly.

Sirius let out a breath he didn't know he was holding and squeezed Remus' hand. He would need all the support he could get to do this. He walked a few steps until all he could see was a narrow wall, filled with muggle posters. Nobody, muggle or magical, could guess there was a door —and a whole house— hidden behind them. He cleared his throat and said, as steadily as he could, as he always did when he had to fake his Blackness.

"I am Lord Sirius Orion Black, head of the ancient of most noble house of Black, demanding entrance to my ancestral home!"

The stack of posters disappeared, and a carved wooden door showed in its place. Remus' face showed he couldn't see the change, and both facts proved to Sirius that Dumbledore was, indeed, right: The magical protection of the Black ancestral home was still there, and it only recognised him as the rightful owner.

Sirius took another step and opened the door, still holding Remus' hand. Only when they entered the house did Remus see they were, indeed, inside.

"Padfoot! It worked" exclaimed a surprised Remus. The bitter smile in his fiancé's face was all the reply he got, before the screaming started.

"You! Traitor!" shouted a life-size portrait of the late Walburga Black.

Remus recognised her from the way-too-few times he had seen her in King's Cross when they were students and sadly saw the same fearful look in Sirius' eyes whenever he looked at his mother.

"Shut up, mother" Sirius hissed. "I don't want to be here any more than you do. But I must. So, we'll have to put up with each other. Just... just stay out of my way and I'll stay out of yours."

The painting withheld its tongue, allowing the two men to move forward inside the house.

It was Remus' first time in the manor. As a 'half-breed beast', as Burga and Orion used to call him, Remus was never allowed there. James on the other hand was, but very rarely came. Sirius prefered it that way. He didn't want his brother in every way that mattered seeing him like that, scared and awkward. And now Harry, James' son, would live here, at least until Voldemort was defeated. Dumbledore had promised. Which meant that Sirius would have to get rid of the ghosts in his past, and he'd have to do it now.

He took the stairs up to his old room, deciding to start with the easiest part. The corners of his mouth turned a bit as he remembered his mother's face when she first saw it filled with Griffindor colours and his friends' pictures. He wondered how it was now — assuming his mother hadn't burnt it down completely.

He was surprised to find it exactly as he had left it. It was something he couldn't understand. Why hadn't Walburga unstuck all pictures? Why hadn't she painted it all green?

He didn't have time to work on that thought, as Remus' voice brought him back to reality.

"Padfoot, should we notify Albus that the house is available?"

Sirius nodded. They had a lot of work ahead of them.

* * *

Sirius couldn't sleep. He was tired as hell, because they had all—Remus, Albus, Arthur Weasley and himself—worked for many hours. They had reinforced the house's unplottability, the had put a Fidelius Charm and readjusted the wards.

Remus was snoring beside him but he was still too agitated. He couldn't take his mind off his earlier question — why hadn't his mother remove all the Griffindor decoration from his bedroom? The woman hated him, he knew that. She had only been putting up with him during his school years because she thought that he would, eventually, become a proper Black. When Sirius had left home, Walburga had finally realised this wouldn't be the case and had disinherited him. Sirius wasn't happy, but he accepted it. The Potters had been his real family, the people who loved him.

So, what was the answer?

Sirius let a deep breath. He wouldn't be able to relax if he didn't solve the mystery. He left the bed trying not to wake his partner and descended the stairs to the entrance hall, stopping by the drawing room for a glass of firewhiskey he would certainly need.

Reaching the entrance hall, he drew the curtain someone had pulled over his mother's portrait. "Mother," he said sternly.

The woman in the portrait smirked, raising an eyebrow at him. "Am I allowed to talk now? Didn't you shut me up earlier, _my lord_?" she added sarcastically.

"Don't give me that," Sirius hissed. "I have questions and I want answers—now!"

Walburga rolled her eyes. "As your muggle-loving little friends would say—_shoot_!"

Sirius gulped, his mother's intimidating techniques starting to get him. But he couldn't show it, not now he had her against the wall, literally.

"Why didn't you take my Gryffindor posters and my friends' photographs off the walls in my room? In fact, why did you keep it exactly the way it was?"

Walburga didn't reply instantly, her gaze searching her son's eyes. "You were never quick, Sirius, were you?" Her search obviously didn't return any hopeful results, so she continued, this time less posed. "You really don't understand, do you? Because I always thought you would come back, obviously!"

Sirius' face looked blank. "You expected me to come back? How? Why? You disowned me!"

"Of course I disowned you. What did you expect me to do? Leave my heir come and go as he pleased? This isn't a hotel!"

"... So?"

"So, dear son, you had to know your actions had sequences. You were sixteen years old, Sirius, you would become Lord Black after my death. You had to outgrow your behaviour; you had to stop being a prankster sometime and become a serious young man."

"... And you thought this was the way to do it? By disowning me? By abusing me in the first place and driving me to leave home? By never apologising?"

"Blacks do not apologise," Walburga said haughtily. Then she let a breath out. "Listen... Perhaps I made a mistake. This is how I was raised, this is how I was taught to raise my own children. Regulus seemed fine with that—"

"—Until he got himself killed working with Voldemort—"

"—and I thought it was the best way for you, too."

"Well, you were wrong, mother!" Sirius snapped.

"You are right; I was," Walburga replied calmly. Sirius was dumbfounded. She had never, _not once_, admitted her mistakes. This was strange. What was stranger was that she seemed sincere. "I was wrong, Sirius," she repeated, "and now it is your turn to make things right. Do you think I am happy for the disgrace our family name is now? Do you think I am happy one of my sons is dead and the other in prison—until recently at least? Do you think I am happy one of my nieces is in Azkaban?

"But I did my best—what I perceived as best, at least—and now the whole thing is up to you; I died, you are Lord Black now. What are you going to do about it?"

* * *

Sirius felt like he was about to faint. This wasn't the discussion he had expected. He had never expected his mother—his dead mother's portrait, for that matter—to acknowledge her mistakes towards him. He wasn't ready to face that, he wasn't ready to give a mature reply to her last question, so he ran. He ran from her like he used to do as a child.

He found refuge not in his room—fearing he might wake Remus—but in his brother's. Regulus was the son he never managed to be. He was the Black he never managed to be. He was rightfully—Sirius had to admit at least that—named heir to the family headship. But then Regulus had joined Voldemort, had obviously failed him and was killed.

Could Sirius be that Black now? Could he feel proud to be pure-blood and head of one of the most powerful, rich and prestigious magical families in Britain, and at the same time stay at the Light side, help vanquish Voldemort and raise his godson properly?

Because Harry was a Potter, member and heir of another rich and prestigious pure-blood family. He deserved things his muggle relatives and the poor, petty Weasleys couldn't provide. Oh, Arthur and Molly were great people, his distant cousins both of them. But they weren't Potters, they weren't Blacks.

Sirius pressed his fingers against his temples, trying to ease his headache and set his thoughts in order. Fuck, this was hard.

He wasn't a teenager any more. He was a grown man, responsible not only for himself, but for his husband-to-be and his godson. If they were to be a family when matters with Voldemort were settled, he'd have to make a few hard decisions.

And the truth was, his mother had given him a way. He could accept her apology, however dubious it was, forgive her and accept her 'blessing' as the new Lord Black.

But only if she accepted all his terms, without any doubt or reservation. Yes.

Sirius returned to the hallway, this time more confident.

"Mother," he began. "I will become a proper Lord Black, as you always wished. However, you will accept my viewpoints fully. You will accept Remus as my husband-to-be, regardless his blood status or his lycanthropy. You will accept Harry Potter as my heir, regardless his blood status as well. You will accept my—and, consequently, the family's—allegiance with the Light side and against Lord Voldemort. And finally, you will never insult my friends, my views, or my ideas ever again!"

Walburga smiled. At last she had made a man out of her Marauder son. "Kreacher," she called her faithful house-elf without taking her look of Sirius' eyes. "Kneel in front of Lord Sirius Black, the truly head of the ancient and most noble house of Black."

Then both she—in the painting—and Kreature knelt.

Mother and son had made peace, at last.

* * *

**Author's note:** I think it's obvious from the fifth book that Sirius felt really, really awkward living in his family's house and filling his mother's shoes. Which resulted to his death. What if things were different? What if he had made peace with his mother?

I want to thank my friend and beta-reader, Vaggeli :***


End file.
